


Paint It White

by elithewho



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Chronic Pain, Depression, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love Confessions, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-18 17:44:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11295591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: Life has returned to normal for Queenie, more or less. Mostly less. While recovering from the events of the movie, Tina asks for a favor and it leads her somewhere she never expected: the doorstep of former Director of Magical Security at MACUSA, Percival Graves.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Story is written and complete, I'll be uploading chapters pretty regularly. Dedicated as always to Morgan, who gave me such encouragement and thoughtful critique. All for you, bb <3

After a few months, everything was back to normal. Queenie was still delivering coffee, Tina was an auror again, and it was like nothing had ever changed. Or it should have felt that way. Queenie knew that something was wrong, something was missing, but she couldn’t articulate it. She just knew that she had been perfectly content with her life before Newt Scamander came into their lives, but she wasn’t anymore.

She thought it must be Jacob. She was still popping into his bakery every week or so, casually reading his mind, searching for any hint of recognition. But there never seemed to be any. He always smiled when he saw her, thought how pretty she was, how he’d love to take her out some time if she’d let him. But beyond that, nothing. Maybe she came to him in his dreams, like the creatures he modeled his pastries after. He certainly visited hers.

But even that familiar feeling of heartbreak didn’t encapsulate the sense of restlessness that plagued her. She’d been crushed by failed romances in the past, plenty of times really, but it wasn’t just Jacob she was longing for.

The change in her demeanor did not go unacknowledged by those around her. Tina kept dropping hints about how unhappy she was acting and gently suggesting she go on a few dates, maybe go on vacation? Queenie had a few dates lined up actually, but Tina herself was too busy to leave the city and Queenie didn’t see the appeal of vacationing on her own. Tina’s involvement in uncovering Grindelwald’s infiltration into MACUSA had not only gotten her fully reinstated, but also a certain amount of prestige. As such she was running around doing field work more than usual, sometimes not coming home for nights at a time. 

Queenie used to relish having the apartment to herself for a night or two but these days all she felt was an empty loneliness. She’d stoke the fire, make herself hot cocoa and work on her knitting while the gramophone crackled on, but it wasn’t the same. More often than not she found herself putting on sad records that had been accumulating dust at the bottom of the closet. She’d never listened to them much before, but the strings would wail and Queenie would cry softly, staring into the flames. Tina’s empty chair made her sad to look at so she’d pile magazines on it to make her feel less alone. She thought that most of the time she was doing an excellent job at pretending to be cheerful, but Tina wasn’t fooled. Queenie could never get anything by her.

On a blustery day in April, Tina sought her out in the MACUSA break room where Queenie was brewing a fresh batch of coffee for various afternoon meetings. She had once experienced an uplifting sense of accomplishment when she managed to remember how every witch and wizard liked their coffee, but the monotony had felt dull and depressing for a while now. So she was frowning at the percolators bubbling like a bunch of wasps when Tina called her name.

“Something wrong?” Tina asked gently in her concerned sister voice. 

“Nope, not a thing,” Queenie responded as cheerfully as possible. Tina thought how convincing her pasted-on smile would look to anyone else, but she knew better. Queenie only grinned wider in defiance.

“I was hoping you’d do a favor for me,” she said, wisely deciding to not pry further.

Queenie immediately perked up at Tina’s tone. This wasn’t a “can you pick up milk at the store on your way home” kind of favor.

“Something needs to be delivered and it’s quite sensitive,” she said evasively and Queenie’s eyes widened.

“Something confidential?”

“It’s for a case,” Tina said, very deliberately blocking out what it was exactly so Queenie couldn’t read her mind. “It’s too important to let the owls handle it and Madame Picquery doesn’t even trust floo. It needs to be hand-delivered and I’m too busy.”

“There isn’t another auror who can do it?” Queenie asked, but she already knew that she’d say yes. It was far more interesting than delivering coffee for the rest of the afternoon.

“I thought you’d like to,” Tina said kindly. “Let you get out and walk around a bit. And Madame Picquery trusts you enough, I already checked with her.”

Queenie was grateful that Tina had thought of her for such a thing. She could feel Tina’s persistent worry for her wellbeing but had the tact not to voice it.

“I’d love to,” Queenie said brightly. “Now? Can I go now? I mean, should I?”

“The sooner the better. Come meet me in my office.”

Queenie, genuinely grinning for once, dashed off to get her coat.

 

Twenty minutes later, Queenie was on her way. She knew it was the simplest mission possible, nothing all that exciting in the grand scheme of things, but something about actually _doing_ something that mattered put the bounce back in her step that she hadn’t even realized was missing. The important thing Tina needed delivered was an innocuous-looking folder, sealed with wax and bound in string. Even she could feel the slight warmth of protective magic when she held it in her hand. Now it was tucked carefully under her coat.

Tina had given her an address in the Upper West Side and had been very cagey and secretive about it all. Queenie didn’t even know who she was supposed to be meeting, only that it was confidential auror business. Queenie hadn’t even prodded at Tina’s mind in an effort to find out because the secrecy made it all the more exciting. Tina had been pleased with her restraint and sent an owl to inform the person she’d be meeting that she was on her way.

Briskly, Queenie made her way down the street lined with trees and wealthy homes rising high into the sky. Everything was much cleaner and better maintained that what Queenie was used to and while it made for a pretty sight, it made her feel a bit uncomfortable, like visiting a museum filled with expensive, untouchable things.

The address was a very fine building indeed and Queenie felt a shiver of excitement. Whoever this person was, they must be rich, important, _interesting._ There was a key to get in, but the building seemed to be largely No-Maj-operated so gaining entry wasn’t difficult. The building was luxurious enough for an elevator, which Queenie appreciated. She was headed for the top floor.

Stepping out onto the landing, Queenie noticed a few things. A strong smell of dust and a feeling of disuse, which she wouldn’t have expected in a building of such luxury. She immediately cast her mind as far as she could, trying to sense who would be inside. But she heard nothing.

Cautiously at first, Queenie rang the bell. Her hesitation made the sound stutter and she tried again more firmly. She didn’t hear anything for long enough that she tried another tactic.

“Hello?” she called, not letting her voice betray her nerves. “It’s Queenie Goldstein. My sister Tina sent an owl.”

After a few silent moments, she at last heard signs of life. Shuffling, muffled footsteps. There was someone on the other side of the door, she could feel it. But she couldn’t hear them, in their mind or otherwise.

“I have something for you,” she said at last. “Something important.”

There was another stretch of silence and then more footsteps, moving away this time. There was a stilted, uneven quality to the sound. Queenie fidgeted nervously, rubbing the back of her stockinged leg and biting her lip. She wasn’t going to leave until she completed her mission.

“Hey, can you just –“

“Queenie Goldstein,” came a voice from the other side of the door. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Tina’s sister?”

“That’s right,” she said firmly. “I have –“

There was a series of clicks as various locks were undone and the door creaked open just enough for Queenie to see the man’s face. She blinked in surprise. It was Director Graves. Taken aback by the familiar face, Queenie simply stared. He looked nothing like she was used to seeing him. Even before the debacle with Grindelwald, she’d had limited contact with him, but his imposing figure swooping through the halls was not unfamiliar. He was always impeccably dressed, not a hair out of place, immediately recognizable by his expensive and perfectly tailored suits. This Graves was quite the opposite. He was unshaven, greying hair uncombed and falling in his face. He wore a silk robe that had once been fine, but had clearly seen better days. The crimson paisley pattern was faded and the cuffs were just becoming threadbare. The robe was belted firmly around his body, but underneath he wore loose linen pants and slippers. He looked thin, pale, a grey cast to his skin that was distinctly unhealthy. He had dark shadows under his eyes and his jaw was unshaven, cheeks speckled with dark grey stubble.

Queenie, still taking it all in and quite shocked by his appearance, didn’t have a moment to speak before he opened the door fully and pulled her inside by the arm. His grip was strong despite his frail appearance and she instinctively tried to shake him off. “Hey –“

Graves held strong, poking his head out the door to quickly search the landing before shutting it and waving his hand to at the half-dozen or so locks to re-secure them. Queenie tugged at his grip, annoyed and even a bit frightened as he pulled out his wand. _“Revelio.”_

Nothing happened. His dark brown eyes bore into her as though he were searching for another face beneath her own.

“Let go of me,” she said sharply and finally, his grip relented. Queenie stepped away, arm a bit sore from his rough hold, smoothing her wrinkled coat.

“I – I apologize,” he muttered, tucking his wand back inside his robe. “I had to be sure.”

Queenie didn’t reply. She had seen this man’s face transform into Grindelwald’s with her very eyes. Still, it was not a very warm welcome and he had startled her. Standing before him, she couldn’t feel or hear anything from him. He was concrete, stone, steel. 

“Tina sent an owl,” she said, unable to keep the annoyance from her voice.

Graves seemed to fidget a bit, smoothing his unkempt hair away from his face. “I haven’t been checking my messages with much care, you see,” he said a bit sheepishly. “You said you have something for me.”

“Yeah,” she said, crossing her arms. “But you haven’t even offered to take my coat.”

She could have sworn that Graves flushed, if only a tiny bit. He looked so wan, so unwell, that she immediately felt terrible.

“Sorry, never mind, that was rude,” she muttered, reaching for the file tucked carefully away from prying eyes.

“No, you’re quite right,” he mumbled, eye downcast. “You startled me, you see, I didn’t expect –“

“I ain’t gonna hold it against you,” she said, mustering a smile. She held the file out to him. “I don’t know what it is, but it must be important since it needed to be hand-delivered and all.”

Graves took the file and looked up at her, chagrined. “Let me take your coat and… offer you tea.”

Queenie knew a gesture of contrition when she saw one and allowed him to take her coat to hang by the door. As he led her into the sitting room, Queenie noticed there was something wrong with his stride. There was a perceptible limp to his gait that made him move a bit slowly and hold onto the wall for balance. Queenie felt a pang of sympathy. Like before, she smelled dust. It wasn’t dirty exactly, but there was an un-lived in feeling to the place. Which felt strange because as far as Queenie knew, Graves hadn’t been at work for months. Not since he’d been rescued from where Grindelwald had hidden him. Admittedly, there had been other things on her mind and Queenie had not thought about where Graves had been. She had only heard the rumor that he was too injured to return to work and may never do so. The acting Director of Magical Security seemed to be settling into the position full-time.

The sitting room looked even worse for wear. The curtains blocked out the mid-afternoon sun and although dust was visible on every surface, the end tables were cluttered with half-drunk mugs of coffee, overflowing ashtrays and empty bottles of firewhiskey.

“Oh dear,” Graves muttered with a deep sigh, as though he had forgotten the state of his sitting room.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” Queenie said gently. “How about the kitchen?”

Graves nodded, but his expression was rueful. The kitchen was not much better. Plates filled the sink, the table covered in ash spots from cigarettes, candles overflowing onto the wood. There was some room to sit where the table wasn’t completely cluttered and Graves set the file Queenie had delivered down before gallantly pulling out a chair for her to sit. But his obvious limp had concerned her and Queenie laid a hand on his arm.

“Let me,” she said kindly. “Please,” she added, when he seemed about to protest.

Graves sank into the chair slowly while Queenie set about filling the kettle and lighting the stove. She glanced over at Graves and his defeated expression, thick eyebrows making his face look extra doleful. When Queenie got nervous, she chatted. She couldn’t help it and the words just poured out as she poked around his depressingly bare cabinets for tea bags or coffee, or anything really.

“Tina probably felt bad that I’ve been moping around everywhere, wanted to give me something to do. I don’t know why, anyone could do it, just deliver a file. It’s not advanced potion brewing. But it’s nice to get outside, breathe some fresh air. Better than being cooped up all day.”

Graves did not respond to her rambling, which was fine by her. As her search for tea bags proved ever more futile, he finally spoke up. “I don’t think you’ll find anything,” he said in a brittle voice. “I haven’t been shopping lately.”

“That’s OK, honey,” she said, cheerfully. “I’m sure – oh! Look, I found something!”

Old, desiccated tea bags in a battered tin buried deep in a cupboard. With perfect timing, the kettle whistled, a high, sharp sound that was out of place in the quiet, dust-filled kitchen. Queenie managed to locate a willow patterned teapot that appeared to have never been used. She couldn’t seem to stop chatting as she washed out the dust and poured hot water over the sad little teabags, leaving them to steep.

“I’ve been such a wreck since last December, I’m sure Tina’s sick of it, when she’s so busy and important now. She was busy before, but now she’s always on the go. Running around putting out fires and catching bad guys, I don’t know. I’m sure everything’s a mess without you to make it all run smoothly.”

Graves looked up when she referred to him, lip twitching.

“She always said you were a good boss, strict but fair, and everyone respected you –”

Queenie went silent abruptly as Graves let out a dry, humorless laugh. He smiled, but it was not cheerful. More of a twisted sneer that made his eyes look even more hollowed.

“Respect,” he repeated like it was a dirty word. “It was more like fear.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Queenie said softly, pouring them two mugs of weak, pale tea. She didn’t bother searching for milk or sugar. When she sipped her tea, it tasted more like hot water than anything.

“It’s true,” he said firmly. “Or it used to be. It certainly isn’t anymore.” His expression turned sour, bitter and unpleasant.

“Did you actually _want_ people to be afraid of you?” Queenie said, incredulous.

“Better than derision,” he said, fingernail picking at a blob of candlewax on the table.

“I don’t think –“

“I know what they think,” he said, a little fierce now. Queenie had seen the same expression in his eyes when he cast _revelio_ on her. “They think I was a fool, a failure at leadership, handily defeated and –“

He fell silent as Queenie touched his hand. He couldn’t seem to meet her eye. _People are easier to read when they’re hurting._ He wasn’t really angry, and he hadn’t been before. He was hiding it well, but Queenie could feel his shame. The rotten taste of humiliation, self-hate and vanquished pride. Graves’s hand twitched beneath her own, his skin dry but very warm.

“I’m sorry I can’t be a better host, Miss Goldstein,” he said sternly. His embarrassment at his show of emotion was clear even without legilimency. “Thank you for bringing me the file. Although I can’t imagine why they bothered. Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his temple and closing his eyes. “I’m not usually so –“

“Candid? Talkative? Don’t worry about it, honey. I bring that out in people.” She stroked the back of his hand, watching the muscles of his face flinch and quiver as he tried to repress some emotion that was struggling to the surface. Even as she pushed at it, she couldn’t seem to make it appear.

“Don’t do that,” he said softly, pulling his hand away with a jerk.

“Sorry,” she said. “Can’t help it sometimes.”

“You should go,” he said, as a clock somewhere in another room chimed for the hour. He pushed the hair off his face, eyes looking quite bright and a bit glossy. “Thank you and I apologize again for being so – so rude.”

“No hard feelings,” she said, offering him a warm smile. Graves merely rubbed his tired face, getting slowly to his feet with an obvious grimace of pain. There was a loud crack from the other room, the familiar sound of apparition and Queenie jumped.

“That’ll be – uh, yes. Let me get your coat.”

Queenie followed him back to the entryway. Walking seemed to pain him even more than before, his limp more pronounced and Queenie wanted to reach out and help him, but she was wary of damaging his pride further. By the door, an older man with a massive mustache and a black bag stood, taking off his coat and hat.

“Mr. Graves, you have a visitor,” the man said.

“Oh, I’m leaving, don’t mind me,” Queenie said, taking her coat.

“Have a good day, Miss Goldstein,” Graves muttered, voice shaking just barely.

“Bye,” she said, sensing that she was intruding on something and that she shouldn’t linger.

The last thing she saw before disapparating was Graves’s ashen face, his eyes sad, knuckles pale as he gripped the doorframe.


	2. Chapter Two

Days later, and Queenie couldn’t get it out of her head. She hadn’t thought much about Mr. Graves in the past and had only spoken to him a handful of times in the years they had both worked at MACUSA. He was always Tina’s boss and she’d occasionally complain about him being a bit of a jerk. He seemed to expect a lot from his aurors and didn’t take kindly to incompetence. Of course the ordeal with Grindelwald had changed much of that, but then that hadn’t been Graves at all. She didn’t know anything about the real Graves, except that he had an excellent wardrobe and a cold, inflexible attitude.

Seeing him in that state had been a shock. While he was clearly embarrassed, whatever had happened to him the side effects were more than just shame over being held captive and impersonated by a dark wizard. The limp, his general disheveled and fatigued appearance, the state of his apartment. And his visitor that afternoon had been a healer, Queenie had known at a glance. They had a certain recognizable air about them and the black bag had struck her with painful familiarity. There had been endless witches and wizards with black bags when her mother got sick. And then more when her father had followed her.

Queenie wiped at her damp face, annoyed at her persistent melancholy. Graves was a stranger to her and as gracious as he tried to be, hadn’t seemed particularly pleased with her company. But Queenie knew better than most that sometimes people didn’t know what they really wanted. He was known to be taciturn and unpleasant at the best of times yet in the brief amount of time they’d shared a weak pot of tea, he’d shared some things with her. She’d seen his self-imposed loneliness and didn’t think he wanted it to stay that.

“You’re not going out?” Tina asked her over dinner and Queenie heard the implicit, _again?_

Queenie had rather defensively told her about the date she had planned for that weekend, with a wizard from the Magical Flora Department. She wasn’t sure how much she really liked him, but it was better than staying in all weekend and enduring Tina’s overbearing concern. It was true that it was unusual for her to stay in every night, but couldn’t she just do that without Tina hovering over her? And she was hardly home most evenings anyway. She didn’t know what Queenie did the rest of the week.

She’d gone to bed early just to avoid her and now she was stewing, unable to focus on the book she’d taken to bed with her. Tina had been curious about Graves, how he looked, if something was wrong with him. She was apparently just as in the dark as Queenie had been about his condition. Queenie gave her vague answers, implying that she’d only seen him for a few moments at most. Tina’s thoughts had continued to whirl, inventing all manner of possibilities. Some were even close to the truth. But Queenie didn’t feel like gossiping for once. 

Loneliness was something she had tried very hard to avoid. She’d clung close to her sister, surrounding herself with friends and beaus and anyone to hold a conversation with. The idea of Graves sitting in that huge penthouse, dusty and ill-used, suspicious of visitors, starved for affection? It all made her heart ache. His bare cupboards, the cigarette ash he hadn’t bothered to clean from the kitchen table, it all spoke of isolation and lethargy. 

The next day, Queenie took the afternoon off again. It was easy to pretend she wasn’t feeling well since she hadn’t been acting like herself for ages. She visited a grocer first, packing everything into a bag charmed with extra undetectable space, and bought a bouquet of flowers from a street vendor on a whim, the early spring blooms catching her eye. She had been trying to avoid Kowalski Quality Baked Goods, because her visits proved to be pointless again and again, but she couldn’t help herself. Jacob was as pleasant and oblivious as ever, thinking how he wished he had a gal like her in his life as he boxed up her pastries. Queenie smiled sadly at him, wishing for… well, who knows what.

Queenie apparated to the landing outside Graves’s penthouse, pausing for a moment before ringing the bell. It took him just as long to answer as before and Queenie greeted him with all the warmth and enthusiasm she could muster.

“Hi! I bought you groceries. And flowers. Oh, and pastries. I hope you don’t mind.”

Graves blinked owlishly at her, clearly unsure how to interpret her sudden appearance at his door. But he let her in. He was dressed in loose trousers and a white shirt, slightly less disheveled than the previous day, but still quite tired and pallid. 

“I got you some tea,” she said brightly as he led her to the kitchen. His limp did not seem as bad, but it was still noticeable. “So we can have a nice cup with our croissants.”

“You didn’t have to do all that,” Graves said awkwardly.

“I know that,” Queenie said brightly. “That’s why it’s a favor.”

Queenie cheerfully babbled about the mundane goings on at MACUSA, about which auror was fooling around with what witch from the secretarial pool and who had been caught performing illegal jinxes on all the water fountains on the second floor. Graves was quite silent as ever, but he didn’t tell her to shut up. She wished she could read his mind, see what he was really thinking, but she didn’t dare pry. 

He seemed content to merely listen to her talk, nodding every now and then as he helped her unload the food she had bought him. Bread, milk, eggs, sugar, tea and coffee, rice, beans, oranges from California as a special treat. She found an empty vase in the hall and arranged the flowers she had bought, bright and cheerful splotches of color in the gloomy kitchen. She prepared a plate of croissants shaped like nifflers to go with their tea and filled the neglected sugar bowl and milk pitcher.

“Cute,” Graves muttered, as he picked up a niffler croissant, its eyes made from buttons of chocolate.

Queenie beamed, pouring them both cups of strong, dark tea. “Jacob made ‘em, he’s that No-Maj Newt picked up. He had to be obliviated of course, but he still remembers a little bit. Not anything else. Not me.” She swallowed her sadness and tried to smile cheerfully again.

Graves looked slightly concerned.

“But I haven’t said anything to him, I was just buying pastries. Buying pastries isn’t illegal, right?”

“Don’t worry, Miss Goldstein, I don’t have the power to arrest you anyway,” he said with a grimace. “Not that I would.”

Queenie grinned a bit guiltily. “Maybe I just… hoped he would remember. Just a little bit. Guess not though.”

Graves had decapitated his niffler and taken a small bite. Queenie sipped her tea, hoping to dislodge the lump in her throat.

“It’s good,” he said in a soft voice and Queenie nodded.

“He’s very talented,” she said with a grin. “But next time I’ll bake you a pie, strawberry rhubarb, my mother’s recipe. She perfected the ratio of strawberries and rhubarb.”

“You don’t – you don’t have to –“

“I _know,”_ she said insistently, reaching out to rub his hand. She didn’t miss how his cheeks had a slight flush. It was good to see color back in his cheeks. 

They finished their croissants and tea, and even though Graves picked a bit at his, he managed to eat it all in the end. Queenie was pleased, concerned by how thin he looked.

As Queenie cleaned up the mess, shushing Graves when he offered to help, there was a chime from somewhere in another room. Graves made a face.

“That’s my alarm, I need to – well, there’s a set time schedule for – for certain things,” he muttered. “It might – well, it usually makes me rather drowsy, but I can show you out first…”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she said brightly. “Go do what you need to do, I’ll clean up and be on my way. If that’s alright.”

Graves smiled tightly. “Of course,” he said, pain flaring briefly on his face as he got to his feet.

Queenie listened to him shuffle away, her chest tight. There had been potions for pain near the end, her mother delirious with fever. The best ones had sent her off to a dreamless sleep. Queenie quickly distracted herself with tidying up, boxing the leftover croissants and putting the leftover milk in the icebox. But the filthy kitchen unsettled her. She felt most comfortable when her surroundings were orderly and clean and it felt wrong to leave the sink such a mess.

She summoned a cascade of suds and set the pile of dishes to clean and dry themselves. After a bit of poking around, she uncovered cleaning supplies in a closet, a feather duster, sponges, a bucket and mop. With more soap, she sent the sponges to dance around the kitchen, cleaning up the dust and cigarette ash on every surface while she set a butter knife to prying off the melted candlewax. The mop waltzed over the floor, leaving it shiny and smelling sharply of lemons. By the time she’d cleaned the table and counters, the dishes had dried themselves and floated off to put themselves away. Pleased with herself, Queenie moved on.

The sitting room was more of a challenge, the dust laying thickly on the untouched surfaces, the rest cluttered with debris. But throwing open the curtains filled the room with sunshine and cracking the windows relieved some of the overpowering musty smell. The sponges and mop and duster worked furiously as Queenie gathered empty liquor bottles and vanished the contents of ashtrays. 

There were more rooms to explore and Queenie did not have the time or inclination to clean all of them, but they were even more neglected than the others. Dark, dank and dusty, furniture draped in white sheets like huge children dressed as ghosts for Halloween. Massive room after massive room.

Queenie got a little turned around, all the sad, disused rooms looking the same in the gloom. She opened a door and found herself in a room that had not gone unoccupied. It was dark, but as her eyes adjusted she saw a worse sight than even the sitting room. Bottles both potion and alcohol, crumpled parchment, broken quills, upended books. The bed curtains had been thrown aside and Graves lay on top of the covers, clearly asleep. An empty potion bottle sat on the bedside table, the traces of its contents still glowing faintly blue, casting a weird, ghostly light on Graves’s sleeping face. He looked both younger and less alive, the grayness of his skin amplified. His feet were bare, shirt and the top of his trousers unbuttoned.

The smell crept upon her slowly. It was so familiar and horrible that tears stung her eyes. She’d never forget the pungent smell of a sickroom, like moldy bread and unwashed bodies. The memory hit her like a gust of cold air, her father touching the top of her head, hand shaking, face disfigured by red hot sores, voice shaking as he asked for a glass of water.

Feeling ill, Queenie closed the door as gently as she could. Back in the kitchen, the cleaning implements had returned to await further instructions, standing stiffly like a troupe of nervous soldiers. Queenie waved her wand and they packed themselves back in the closet. Everything smelled of lemon and fresh air from the windows where the curtains still fluttered. She made sure to shut them before gathering her coat, in case it got cold at night. The last thing she wanted was to give Graves a chill on top of everything else.

The flowers still sat on the kitchen table, brilliant purple, deep red and soft blue. Hands shaking only a tiny bit, Queenie apparated home.

 

Graves surveyed his once chaotic sitting room and kitchen with dismay. When Queenie had cheerfully said she would clean up, he had thought she meant just the things from their tea. It had been embarrassing enough having her see the mess he’d made of the place, but then she felt obligated to clean it all up.

And the groceries! Graves had never felt entirely comfortable with charity. He had a feeling he was being an unappreciative snob, but his parents had always looked down on charity with the typical condescension of the very wealthy. Queenie felt bad for him as though he couldn’t buy his own groceries. True as that may be, he still had his pride. He had been perfectly content not to allow anyone from MACUSA see what became of him. And if he’d learned one thing about Queenie it was that she loved to gossip. He was sure the entire building knew about him now.

That he was an invalid, a cripple, a wreck of his former self. He didn’t remember much from being rescued or the first few weeks in the healing ward. But he remembered every healer telling him that he’d get better, that his leg was sure to heal, but was only fatigued from the potions, the dizziness was normal. Graves stopped believing them after the first week. When they finally discharged him, they admitted without even a hint of shame that they didn’t know how to fix his leg or why he had no energy. Something Grindelwald did to him all those months in the cold and the darkness. Now the best healers at home and from abroad would examine him and walk away stumped, offering only ways to _manage_ his condition. Not fix it. Not get him back to how he was before.

Graves sat heavily on the couch in his freshly-cleaned sitting room. With the curtains pulled aside and every surface dusted and shining, it actually looked like a normal person’s sitting room. A place where a normal person would entertain guests. Graves hadn’t even used it for that purpose before he was captured. There was no one he wanted to invite over, let alone anyone who would want to come. These days he was having more guests than ever. 

He checked the clock and groaned. Someone from a healing ward in Boston that specialized in muscle injury was due to arrive. The pain relief potion had made him sleep for so long that he felt especially disoriented and sluggish, a feeling that never seemed to leave him, only lessen and increase in waves. Whatever Grindelwald had done to him was mostly an impenetrable blur, punctuated by memories of _imperio_ and _crucio_ and _legilimens._ The most vivid memories came to him in dreams. Nightmares that shook him awake, shaking and gasping, bathed in cold sweat, his leg throbbing, a pain so unbearable that he couldn’t think.

As Graves brooded, dark thoughts impossible to chase away, the fireplace roared to life. The flames were orange and then flashed green before spitting its occupant onto the hearthrug. A witch, younger than he expected, fashionably dressed and carrying a highly polished black bag.

“Mr. Graves,” she said once she had recovered from her journey by floo. 

Graves struggled to stand and greet her properly, but she must have seen how he winced, the pain in his leg flaring hotly.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to stand,” she said with that concerned, pitying smile that all healers seemed to have.

Gratefully, Graves sank back down, grunting slightly at the discomfort in his leg, spreading from his knee to his hip and down to the ankle.

“I’m Healer Jenkins,” the witch said evenly, setting her black bag on an ottoman and beginning to unload its contents. “I specialize in joint and muscle pain.”

“Yes, they told me,” Graves muttered.

“Excellent,” she said. “Please remove your trousers.”

Graves had grown used to the perfunctory and brisk tone of healers, the clinical way they examined him. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he had any other social contact to speak of. Well, now there was Queenie. She was anything but cold and detached.

Healer Jenkins was the youngest specialist who had examined him so far and he couldn’t help but be wary of her expertise. She summoned a small, foldable table on which she arranged a collection of vials and bunches of herbs. Meanwhile, Graves struggled to remove his trousers with some grace. It was hard with his leg aching the way it did, but he finally stripped down to his drawers as Healer Jenkins pulled the ottoman close enough to sit on while pulling Graves’s leg onto her lap.

Graves hissed in pain as Healer Jenkins began to prod him, first with her wand and then her fingers, questioning him about where it hurt and in what way.

“Hmm, there does seem to be extensive damage,” she remarked and Graves couldn’t help but be annoyed. He knew there was damage, he could _feel_ it. “And muscle regenerative potions don’t help?”

He shook his head, irritated. 

“And you don’t remember exactly how the injury occurred?”

“No,” Graves forced out through gritted teeth as she squeezed an especially painful spot.

“It’s necessary for me to have a complete picture before I recommend a course of treatment, Mr. Graves,” she said, apparently offended by his tone.

“Yes, of course,” he muttered, shutting his eyes and rubbing fiercely at his temple. 

He heard Healer Jenkins huff and then the clink of potion vials being shuffled around.

“There are some tinctures and pain relief potions I’d like to try,” she said as Graves opened his eyes to examine the bottles she handed to him. “They’d be applied directly to the skin, which I believe targets the damaged tissue more directly then when taken orally.”

“Great.”

Healer Jenkins applied a dollop of oily liquid to her palm and the smell of camphor filled the room as she rubbed it between her hands. She started on his knee, rubbing in broad circles that made Graves grit his teeth in pain. The potion was warm on her hands, leaving a thick, shiny coating as she moved down his calf. The pain was immense at first and Graves had to squeeze the couch cushions to keep from crying out. But as the potion absorbed into his skin, he felt a pleasant warmth. It sank deeper, soothing the fierce pain that made it near impossible to think. 

“Ah,” Graves breathed. “That feels better.”

“Excellent,” Healer Jenkins said, pushing his underwear higher up his thigh to rub the potion into the skin there. The relief was spreading and Graves groaned as the pain ebbed away.

It was deliciously soothing, to be free of the pain that plagued him constantly unless he was under the influence of an anesthetic potion. He felt Healer Jenkins’s warm hands glide over his skin and he realized with a pang how long it had been since he’d been touched this way. The other healers with their clinical detachment never touched him with such care. He knew intellectually that it was a medical procedure and nothing more, the best method of applying the potion for pain relief. But his body didn’t know that, and he hadn’t been touched in far too long.

“Oh dear,” Healer Jenkins muttered, hands jumping away as though his skin were a hot stove.

Graves knew immediately what had scared her off and the shame that burned through him was molten hot and all-consuming. Mortified, Graves tried to mitigate the damage by taking a throw pillow and placing it on his lap. “I – I apologize,” he stuttered, hardly able to look at her. “That doesn’t –“

“It’s quite alright,” she said sternly. “It’s not an uncommon reaction.”

Yes, well, it was still a humiliating one. Getting a hard-on from a woman touching him like he was a schoolboy all over again. 

“The pain, would you say there’s some relief?” Healer Jenkins inquired, professional as ever.

“Yes,” Graves muttered, face still on fire. “It feels – it feels much better.”

“Excellent. I recommend applying the tincture with a massaging motion whenever you have flare-ups. Would you like to pay up front or put it on credit?”

Graves directed her to his money pouch because he did not feel comfortable standing up just yet. She helped herself to the appropriate amount of dragots and was on her way after a firm handshake.

Alone again, Graves let himself enjoy the rare bliss of being pain-free. He still felt quite weak, fatigued to his bones in a way that was a constant companion. But the pain, that ghost which haunted him without mercy, had gone away for the time being. He stood, testing out putting his weight on the limb. It still felt quite tender and frail, but the pain was significantly lessened. 

With his mood much improved, he couldn’t stop his mind from straying back to Queenie. She was a presence in his life that he’s never experienced before. He’d had a lonely childhood, was often an anxious and solitary child. He’d been afraid of many things, the dark, being alone, being around people, his father’s temper and his mother’s moods. He’d never felt loved particularly, or even wanted.

His family had owned many properties and it was in their country home upstate where he’d made a friend. She was the ghost of Branwyn, his great-great second cousin twice removed who had died of consumption a century or more before. She’d haunted the attic where young Graves would go to play and although she’d been fickle and prone to temper tantrums, she’d been a companion. Someone he could talk to.

When his mother discovered that he was mucking around the attic with the ghost of a long-dead relative, she’d been less than pleased. She’d called a specialist in exorcism and Branwyn had been evicted to haunt someone else’s attic. Graves was alone again. He decided to get used to it, since the situation wasn’t likely to change any time soon. He’d been right about that, at least.

Queenie was different entirely. She had swept into his apartment filled with sunshine, color and brightness that his life had always been missing. Her cheerful optimism and kindness was so relentlessly infectious that he couldn’t help but feel a little more hopeful about the future.

With that uncommon optimism buoying his spirits, he made his way back to his room with more agility than usual, managing to pick up a few scattered books and bits of parchment along the way. If the pain stayed at bay, he might even be able to get some work done. His research on magical injury and chronic pain was often interrupted by the very thing he sought to relieve. He felt helpless when the pain overtook him, blotting out rational thought and leaving him reeling. But he felt positively clearheaded after Healer Jenkins’s treatment and he was grateful, despite his reaction to how she touched him.

Graves managed to find where he had last left off, in the middle of _The Compendium of Magical Maladies._ From the notes he left in the margins, he could see how his penmanship degraded when he felt especially poorly. Decoding his own illegible scrawl was a process on its own. With a deep sigh, Graves lit the lamps and hunkered down to make as much progress as he could.


	3. Chapter Three

Queenie was a woman of her word. She had told Graves she would bake him a pie and that she did. Strawberries and rhubarb were in season and she’d been itching to make something special for a while. Tina was off on one of her mysterious excursions so Queenie had the apartment to herself. It was soothing work, using magic for the more tedious parts of the dough-making process but rolling and shaping it by hand the way her mother had taught her.

For a long time she hadn’t been able to bake the traditional way without thinking about her mother and feeling too sad to continue. But over the years, the sting of grief had lessened, turned her memories into something warm and happy and only quietly sad. Queenie put on a cheerful record as she cut out stars and moons from the dough to make the crust, singing along to her favorite tune. Pleased with her creation, she boxed it up and spelled it to keep it cool and fresh for the next day.

The sun shone warmly as Queenie made her way to Graves’s building. It was Saturday and she’d decided to walk and enjoy the fresh air, taking a route along the park. Families of No-Majes were out and about, enjoying the nice weather the same way magical people did. She even recognized a few witches and wizards, if not by face then by clear signs of magic in the way they dressed or tried to covertly summon water or a blanket to sit on.

Humming cheerfully, Queenie took the elevator up to Graves’s penthouse and rang the bell. It didn’t take long for him to answer this time and the Graves that came to the door was much healthier looking than she had seen him recently. He’d shaved and combed his hair and wore a smart pair of black trousers and a white shirt.

“Miss Goldstein, please come in,” he said pleasantly and he even sounded happy to see her.

Queenie grinned and held out her pie with a flourish as she stepped in. “Told you I’d bake you a pie,” she said brightly, and Graves managed a small smile when she lifted the lid of the box.

“It looks delicious,” he said lip twitching.

Even his limp looked better and he insisted he fix the tea while Queenie cut slices for both of them.

“You look chipper today,” she remarked as he settled down with the full teapot. “I mean, chipper for you.”

He nodded, even restrained in his contentment. “It comes and goes,” he said. “The pain.”

“But it doesn’t really go that often?” Queenie asked, brow furrowed.

Graves gave her a small, sad smile. “Not usually,” he said, taking a bite of pie. “This is delicious, by the way.”

Queenie beamed.

“I have to thank you for tidying up the other day, you really –“

“Didn’t have to, I know! I _like_ helping people, you know.”

His eyebrows pulled together in confusion, as though the concept was a strange one he found difficult to grasp. Queenie had a feeling he wasn’t used to people being kind to him in particular. In the absence of Graves making an effort to make conversation, Queenie still found plenty to talk about. 

“No-Majes _are_ just like us,” she mused. “And I know that sounds silly, but even at school they made it seem like No-Majes are so _different._ My dad was No-Maj-born. He was no different from any other wizard.”

Graves was nodding in agreement, which Queenie found encouraging.

“It’s so artificial, the divide between us,” she said. “We isolate ourselves and it makes us scared.” She glanced at Graves, his dark eyes filled with an emotion she couldn’t place. “Oh dear, that sounded like something Grindelwald would say, didn’t it?”

“Not at all,” he said. “Well, maybe a little, but I know what you meant. Grindelwald wants to subjugate the No-Majes. You just want to understand them.”

Queenie smiled softly. It was nice to be listened to for a change. She found it easy to talk to everyone, but being actually _listened to_ was a pleasing change. It was one of the things she liked so much about Jacob, how he couldn’t wait to hear any little thing she said to him. Graves was looking at her a bit intently and Queenie was sure she was blushing a bit. He really was a very handsome man, especially when he looked so much healthier. Oh, how she longed to listen to his thoughts.

“Thank you for keeping me company,” he said presently, looking down at his tea and empty pie plate. “I’m sure there are other things you’d rather be doing.”

“Not at all,” Queenie said confidently. “I like you.”

There was that face again, his eyebrows twisting up towards his hairline. “I’m not much fun to be around,” he muttered. “Especially these days.”

“Nonsense.”

Now it was Graves’s turn to blush. Queenie had the urge to reach over and cup his pink cheek, feel the warmth of his recently shaved skin, how the stubble was already pushing towards the surface, a silver-gray shadow living just beneath the porcelain skin. Her palm itched and she fiddled with her tea cup, feeling a bit like a foolish schoolgirl trying to hide her crush.

“I should go,” she said softly, after glancing at the time.

“Right,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s just, I have a date, already planned it days ago,” she said quickly, suddenly feeling bad. “It would be rude to cancel.”

“Of course,” he muttered, cheeks still pink.

Oh dear, she was always saying the wrong thing. If only he wasn’t so hard to read! Sheepishly, Queenie gathered her things and laid a hand on his arm. “I’ll come visit again soon,” she said. “I promise.”

Graves only nodded. Her hand lingered, not wanting to let go of his pleasant warmth, the buttery smoothness of his shirt.

But in the end, she had to. Graves didn’t get up as she hurried to the entryway and disapparated with a crack.

 

Queenie was not looking forward to her date. But she had to pretend she was because Tina especially was taking it as sign she was getting back to her old self. 

“I think I like the pink better,” Tina commented as Queenie modeled one of her many dresses in the living room.

It was a common ritual before Queenie went out with a new guy, trying on every dress she owned while Tina provided commentary.

“The light pink or dark pink?”

“Dark. No, light. Yeah, the light one with the frills.”

Queenie actually had several light pink dresses with frills, but she knew which one Tina meant because she always suggested it. She changed into it and Tina gave her a whistle of approval.

“What about you?” Queenie said, using her wand to arrange her hair into perfect curls. “Do you not have time to date either because you’re too busy catching bad guys?”

“Maybe I haven’t met anyone I like enough,” Tina muttered evasively and Queenie squinted at her sister’s reflection in the mirror. She was hiding something and not being very subtle about it.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Queenie said, bobbing her head from side to side to admire the effect of the curling spell. Tina could have her secrets. 

Queenie finished her makeup and put on a big grin to show Tina she was excited about going on a date and anticipating she’d have lots of fun. Tina seemed to buy it this time and Queenie was on her way.

She met the wizard from the Magical Flora Department, Lionel, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. They’d arranged to go dancing, which was one of Queenie’s favorite things to do. He was tall and an easy talker with a handsomely boyish face and broad smile. Queenie should have been having a great time, but the longer the date went on, the more she just wanted to go home. They danced until her feet hurt and he got them a table near the bar, ordering them a round of giggle water. Lionel toasted her and they both drank but Queenie didn’t think she’d be laughing at all if the drink hadn’t been spelled. 

He had a lot to say, which was good, because Queenie was feeling unusually reticent. Most of the things he had to say were about himself and how great he was, however. Queenie listened politely and when it was her turn to talk, Lionel gave every appearance that he was listening intently but a peek into his mind showed all he was thinking about was getting her into bed. After a few more drinks, Queenie told him she was tired and wanted to go home.

Lionel escorted her gallantly to the door of her building and went in for the kiss. Queenie let him have it, regretting it as soon as he tried to drag it on for too long. 

“Sorry, I’m not allowed to have men in the apartment,” she said with a shrug and Lionel fiddled with his hat, thinking about how she should make an exception just for him. “Night!”

“I’ll see you again, soon?” he said hopefully and Queenie just waved before slipping inside and up the stairs.

Tina was still awake, curled up in her chair by the fire. “You’re home early,” she said, sounding a bit disappointed.

“Well, they can’t all be winners,” she said briskly and disappeared into the bedroom. 

She didn’t feel up to sitting around and commiserating with Tina about how men are pigs. She’d done her part, shown that she was completely over Jacob by going on a date like normal and acting like her normal self. That didn’t mean the date had to have gone well. And she _wasn’t_ still hung up on Jacob, she’d hardly thought of him all day.

Queenie drew up a bath and poured in plenty of bubbles. No, Jacob hadn’t been on her mind much at all. Not since… well, not since visiting Graves. His loneliness, his vulnerability, his clear need for companionship had touched something deep inside her. She couldn’t shake her desire to see him again. It was foolish, she knew. But the idea of leaving him alone without any friends or visitors was too much to bear. Queenie sunk deep under the thick layer of lavender foam, letting it wash away her makeup, the sweat from so much dancing, and Lionel’s overpowering cologne. 

She couldn’t deny it wasn’t just because she felt sorry for him, either. Queenie hadn’t felt so drawn to a guy since Jacob and her disastrous date with Lionel had put that in clear perspective. She clearly remembered the way Graves had looked at her that afternoon, his cheeks pink, brown eyes large and clear. She blushed, even in the privacy of her bathtub. It was a crush, that was all. It would pass.

 

The relief he had acquired from Healer Jenkins’s pain relief potion was not permanent. Of course, he knew it would be the case, but waking up in a cold sweat, knee on fire with agony, still made his heart sink. He fumbled in his bedside drawer for one of the more powerful anesthetic potions. His fingers closed around the smooth neck of a bottle but holding it up he saw it still glowed green. Too soon since his last dose. Graves grit his teeth in agony, nearly smashing the bottle against the wall in frustration. A large part of him, the part on fire with pain especially, wanted to take the potion anyway. But he resisted. The potential for adverse side effects was too great. Like his heart ceasing to beat, for one. Sometimes the pain was so great he welcomed that outcome.

Pushing that dark thought away, Graves pulled himself out of bed. He lit a lamp, the light digging into his eyes like needles. That was always how light felt after too long in the dark. It had been so when Grindelwald would shine the lit tip of his wand across his face after days of pitch blackness. Needles in his eyes, daggers under his skin.

The faint gray light outside his window told him that it was dawn. He hobbled to the kitchen, deeply grateful for Queenie and her kindness as he brewed a pot of coffee. He’d grown so fond of her in such a short span of time that he found it rather alarming. Graves was not one to foster deep attachments to people. He kept to himself, content in his isolation. Or maybe he wasn’t so happy to be alone as he’d always thought and he needed Grindelwald to show that to him. Either way, he found himself craving Queenie’s company.

And her touch. Her soft hand on his arm, a soft brush against his knuckles – he longed for it so intensely it was a pain to rival the hurt in his leg. But he was being foolish. She was showing him a kindness, nothing more. She pitied him and his sorry state and, being such a nice person, wanted to help. Buy him groceries, pretend to be his friend. And he was desperate enough to let her, because he had no one else.

Graves drank his coffee, savoring the bitter rush of caffeine. He summoned tobacco and rolling papers, fingers only shaking slightly as he assembled the first cigarette of the day. The ache in his leg throbbed dully as he took a long drag, all the fire of earlier ebbing away but still aching enough to make it impossible to relax. He nibbled on more of Queenie’s pie as he brooded. He needed to get out and stop wallowing in his own misery for a bit, he decided. His attachment to Queenie seemed predicated on how lonely and insulated he had become. Almost every healer who examined him had suggested he needed to get out of the house from time to time, and he’d scoffed at them. They couldn’t even fix him, what did they know? But maybe he’d try it, just to see.

When the pain in his leg had diminished to a dull ache, he dressed in one of his nicer suits, combing his hair and feeling a little bit more like his old self. The only difference was the cane one of the healers had provided him when it became clear he couldn’t walk without limping. It made him feel like an old man, a useless invalid, but if he was going to walk around the city, he was sure he’d need it. 

The day was bright and warm, one of those clear spring days that brought everyone out to enjoy the weather. He was close enough to walk to Central Park, but the commute took him much longer than usual. Graves, limping along with his cane, felt rather conspicuous. He was sure that everyone was staring at him and the strain of walking so far was making his leg flare up with needle-sharp pains. Annoyed, Graves stopped to sit on a bench. He stretched out his leg, wishing he had some of Healer Jenkins’s potion to rub on it. The bright, cheery laughter of children and families surrounded him. An elegant lady with a small dog in tow strolled past. Graves leaned back, the sun full on his face. It felt nice, clean, pure. 

“Do you have a peg leg?”

Graves cracked open his eyes to see a small child standing at his knee. No-Maj by the look of her, wearing a white Sunday dress.

“Excuse me?”

“My daddy has a peg leg and he carries a cane,” the child informed him solemnly.

“Oh. No, I still have my leg, it just doesn’t work right.”

The child nodded in understanding and hopped up to sit on the bench beside him. “Was it a shell in France?”

“A what?”

“My daddy got his leg blown off by a shell in France.”

“No, it wasn’t that,” Graves said.

“I don’t remember my daddy when he had his leg, but momma says he’s different now. Are you different?” The child squinted at him, her face full of questioning innocence.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I must be.”

“Lucy!” A No-Maj woman carrying a picnic basket was dashing towards them. “Lucy, leave that man alone! What have I told you about wandering off?”

“Not to do it,” Lucy recited contritely as the woman grabbed her hand and pulled her off the bench.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said to Graves, her face pink from exertion. “She never listens to me.”

“It’s quite alright,” Graves said sincerely. 

He watched Lucy and her mother stride off, Lucy clearly getting another lecture from the way her mother gestured wildly. Graves was feeling very tired and very warm. His leg was tingling with bright firecrackers of pain. When he could no longer endure it, he struggled to his feet and realized he’d never make it back to his apartment on foot.

With so many No-Majes around, he had no choice but to hobble, huffing and wincing in pain, to a secluded bush where he dearly hoped no would see him. He was concerned about splinching himself, so near to delirious with pain that he was, but he couldn’t bear the alternative. He disapparated with a crack.

He stumbled upon arrival, sweat beading his forehead, limping worse than ever. But he was all in one piece. Grunting with each step, Graves drank the pain relief potion in one gulp, its bitter taste making him gag. In the bathroom, he stripped down with a shaking wave of his hand, letting his clothes fall in a heap on the tiles in a way he never would have before.

He ran the bath, crawling in before the tub had finished filling because he couldn’t keep standing any longer. He felt weak as a newborn colt, shivery, covered in goo. The hot water felt good on his aching joints and the potion had at least taken the edge off. So much for getting out and stretching his legs.

 

It was nearly dinner time when Queenie arrived at Graves’s door. She’d spent the day with Tina, walking the boardwalk on Coney Island because Tina had suggested it. Queenie enjoyed having sister time, especially with Tina working so much, but her mind kept wandering. Graves was a constant presence in her thoughts and she kept wondering what he would think about the Ferris wheel or the ice cream or if he’d like the beach at all. She couldn’t picture it, but it was fun imagining him, looking put out amongst all the crowds and bright sunshine, forced to enjoy an ice cream cone.

At the end of the day, Queenie made some excuse and slipped away. She knew Tina was suspicious and Queenie heard her thinking that she better not be stalking Jacob again. 

“I’m not stalking him!” she exclaimed. “I just – I need something at the store.”

Tina made a face and clearly didn’t believe her. Queenie ignored that and dashed off. Let Tina think what she wanted, it wasn’t even true. She apparated to Graves’s apartment and rang the bell. He didn’t answer, even given the long time it took for him to answer normally. Queenie chewed her lip, anxiety gnawing at her. She didn’t think he’d go anywhere, he was probably just passed out thanks to one of his pain relief potions. Nothing to worry about. But still, Queenie felt anxious for no discernable reason. And her instincts were usually correct.

She tried the door and found that it was open. That was enough to make her anxiety spike.

“Mr. Graves?” she called out into the dark apartment.

There was no answer.

Queenie lit the lamps and found the kitchen and sitting room deserted. “Mr. Graves!” she called out again, a little louder. “Percival?”

The apartment remained silent and still as a mausoleum. Heart pounding, Queenie walked quickly through the many dark and empty rooms, the furniture draped in white cloth looking even creepier than before. She opened the door to his bedroom without hesitation, but that was empty too. But the door to the bathroom was partially open, casting a wide stripe of light across the floor.

Queenie pushed inside and gasped in alarm. Graves was in the bath, clearly not conscious. Queenie rushed to his side, touching his face and neck cautiously. She could feel him breathing, but he didn’t stir at all and the bathwater was cool to the touch. 

“Mr. Graves,” she muttered, voice high with emotion. She shook him gently but he didn’t come to. “Oh dear.”

Carefully, Queenie unstopped the bath and summoned a towel from the linen closet. She didn’t know how long he lay in the cold water, but he must be freezing. She wrapped his upper body in the towel and he lolled against her, completely boneless, shivering slightly.

“Oh, Percival,” she murmured, close to tears.

Casting a levitation spell because she’d never get him out of the tub otherwise, she guided his body into the bedroom and onto the bed, summoning more towels to dry him completely. His nakedness did not register except that she needed to get him warm again. Once his skin was dry, she tugged the covers over him snugly, casting a gentle warming charm and softly stroking his forehead. He mumbled weakly, only barely coming to.

“It’s alright, I’m here,” Queenie said gently, kicking off her shoes before snuggling close beside him. 

He’d stopped shivering, his skin regaining a healthy pinkness. Queenie stroked his face, tense and troubled even in sleep. She let her hand slide under the covers to settle on his chest where his heart thumped against her palm. Like this, unconscious, Queenie could read his mind. His thoughts were chaotic and unfocused as everyone’s were in sleep, but she could still feel his anxiety. He was afraid, in pain, darkness closing around him. She wasn’t sure if it was a dream or a memory, but the fear and pain was palpable. She kissed his forehead, continuing to stroke him in a way she hoped would soothe him. He struggled feebly against some unseen enemy, whimpering like a small child.

After a time, his thoughts became calmer, less fraught. His face softened; he looked young and peaceful. His dreams were more distant, but serene, and Queenie felt herself drifting off beside him, hand still over his softly beating heart.


	4. Chapter Four

The dream was not like the others; blackness choking him, fear stealing his breath away. He was calm, warm, swaddled in something dark but lovely, a calm sea at night. It was such a welcome change from waking up with sudden, sharp and blinding pain that he didn’t open his eyes at first and savored the rare comfort.

As he slowly climbed back to consciousness, Graves became aware of the other person in his bed. Startled, his eyes flew open and he looked down, unprepared for Queenie’s face, soft in sleep, nestled against his neck. No wonder he felt so comfortable. His leg hardly bothered him besides a familiar tightness and Queenie was almost unbearably soft and warm against him. He also became aware that he was naked, but Queenie was not. The silk of her dress was soft as cream, absorbing the radiant heat from her body.

Graves struggled to remember what had happened the night before. He remembered the park, the pain in his leg becoming unbearable, he’d gone home, taken a bath… he must have passed out in the tub. Queenie must have found him there. How humiliating, to not even be able to care for himself. And kind as she was she must have stayed the night with him, worried about his frail condition.

He felt sick with it, but the comfort of her body, the smell of her hair filled his senses, the gentle beauty of her face, calm and relaxed as she slept. He didn’t want to wake her, to remove himself from her embrace. He’d gone so long without any sort of tenderness. Her hand rested on his bare chest, fingers curled slightly. He wanted to take her hand, kiss the smooth hollow of her palm.

She’d been so kind, so gentle. He could feel his cock hardening, her closeness and affection going to his head like nothing else. He’d been starved for it, he realized. For any kind of touch or regard for his wellbeing. How pathetic that he’d cling so tight to this little bit of care, like an orphaned duckling imprinting on an oblivious dog. He sighed deeply, arousal making his skin heat up and prickle. He shifted minutely, trying to will away his hard-on before Queenie woke up and noticed. But the movement only sent a flare of pain down his leg and he bit his lip so hard to stifle any sound that he tasted blood.

His efforts were all for naught, and the sudden stiffening of his body in reaction to the pain now surging through him roused Queenie from her sleep. Graves panted, squeezing his eyes shut at the fierce humiliation.

“Oh, honey, you’re in pain,” Queenie mumbled, voice thick with sleep and concern.

“It’s fine, really,” he bit out. “Just a – just a flare-up.”

“What can I do?” Queenie laid a soft hand on his face.

Graves squinted at her, brow furrowed from worry, hair disheveled in a golden halo around her lovely face. “I can – I can just take a potion,” he stuttered desperately.

“But that will knock you out again! You just woke up!”

Graves whimpered in pain, unable to bear it. “There’s something else,” he choked out. “I can rub it on my knee –“

Queenie scrambled up as Graves directed her to where Healer Jenkins’s potion was stored. He tried not to notice how she was only wearing a slip. She must have removed her dress and stockings to get more comfortable. He could see the outline of her body through the peach-colored silk and he closed his eyes tight.

“So you just rub it in?” she said, bouncing back onto the bed and examining the vial closely.

“I can do it,” he muttered, feeling his cheeks flush.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, already smearing a dollop on her hands, the smell of camphor making her nose wrinkle.

Graves was in too much pain to insist. It didn’t stop the surge of humiliation when she pulled back the covers, revealing his naked body and half-hard cock heavy on his thigh. If she thought it was strange or embarrassing, he couldn’t tell. The first touch of her potion-slick hands on his leg made him gasp, the pain sharpening.

“It’s fine,” he breathed as Queenie looked alarmed. “It’ll start working in a minute.”

Her small, soft hands began to move. She was hesitant at first, wary of his weak moans of pain as her fingers prodded sore muscles. But soon, the potion began to do its magic, soothing warmth seeping into his skin throbbing with pain. 

“It’s working?” Queenie said hopefully, spreading the potion down his calf.

“Yeah, it’s working,” he mumbled, relief audible in his voice.

Her touch was even more electrifying than the mortifying experience with Healer Jenkins. This was Queenie, whose soft body pressed against his own had awoken such primal urges in him just moments before. Her fingers danced higher, up his thigh and he bit back a stuttering moan. He could feel his cock hardening as the pain ebbed away and reached out to grab her wrist, stilling the intolerable stimulation of her hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly, unable to look at her.

“It’s OK,” she said, voice soft. “It happens.” Her hand was still warm on his thigh. 

“Thank you for your help,” he muttered, gently pushing at her wrist to put her at a safe distance from his overheated body. “For last night as well.” He tugged at the sheet, pulling it over his lap to hide his shame. He glanced at Queenie, her face looking slightly pink, hair glowing in the soft morning light.

“Are you hungry?” she muttered and Graves managed to nod. “I’ll make pancakes. With cream and strawberries. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful,” he said softly, and she smiled.

 

As April turned into May and the city bloomed, leaving any traces of winter behind and embracing the glory of spring, Queenie found herself in Graves’s apartment almost every day. She could tell he enjoyed her company, even if he didn’t say it. The more time she spent with him, the easier his moods and mannerisms were to read.

One Sunday afternoon, he lay on a chaise longue before the open window, lace curtains fluttering in the spring breeze. Most days he seemed able to manage with minimal potions to help manage his symptoms. He still limped, winced, was easily fatigued. Queenie had reclaimed the room from its dusty, disused fate, making the furniture usable again. She was going through piles of musty books from one of the many shelves that lined the walls as Graves rested, felled by another bout of exhaustion. She was sorting them into piles based on subject, but kept getting distracted by a really interesting one and she’d find herself getting lost between the pages.

“This was my father’s study,” Graves mused after a long stretch of silence as Queenie poured over an old tome, her nose filled with mildew and the damp vanilla smell of old paper. 

“Was it?”

“I wasn’t allowed in here when I was young,” he continued, voice soft, lost in memory. “I distracted him.”

Queenie gave him a sad look. She didn’t have to be a mind-reader to surmise that Graves’s relationship with his parents and his father in particular was a bit complicated. She knew from various comments that this had been their home; they were an old, blue-blooded family; and, to be honest, Graves’s cold, impersonal manner spoke volumes about how they had operated as a family.

“Oh, look at this!” Queenie exclaimed, holding up a slim, battered book with delight. _“The Tales of Beedle the Bard,_ my parents read this to me all the time. Teenie and I used to fight over whether we heard _The Fountain of Fair Fortune_ or _The Wizard and the Hopping Pot._ I always wanted to hear _The Fountain_ but Tina would always try and bully me into hearing _The Hopping Pot_ again–“ she paused, swept up in the memories of childhood. “Did anyone ever read stories to you as a kid?”

Graves was smiling sadly, a wistful look in his eyes. “No, I can’t remember ever being read to,” he said softly. “That must be a rare edition for my father to bother keeping it in his library.”

It did look quite old, its gilt edges grimy with age.

“Well, do you want to hear a story now?”

Graves looked up at her, bemused. “You want to read to me?”

“Why not? It’ll be fun!”

Graves shrugged, not seeming entirely convinced, but he scooted aside so that Queenie could lie beside him on the chaise. For both of them to fit, Graves needed to sling his arm over her shoulder and Queenie found herself enjoying their closeness.

They hadn’t spoken of the incident when Queenie had rubbed his leg and he’d gotten excited. She knew she shouldn’t read into it – men couldn’t help having reactions. But she couldn’t deny how it had excited _her_ – his flushed face, long, solid body with its smattering of dark hair, his cock hardening further with every touch of her hand, the smell of his skin, the soft moans he could hardly contain. She knew it was terrible, lusting after him when he was so vulnerable and in pain, but the memory still thrilled her and being so close to him again was very distracting. She was close enough that if she wanted to she could nuzzle his cheek, feel the slight scrape of stubble against her skin, inhale his scent, feel his heart beating in his throat.

Mouth dry, cheeks pink, Queenie forcibly turned her attention back to the little book in her lap. She turned automatically to _The Fountain of Fair Fortune,_ a warm tingle of nostalgia bubbling in her chest at the familiar words.

“High on a hill in an enchanted garden, enclosed by tall walls and protected by strong magic, flowed the Fountain of Fair Fortune…”

When the first tale was done, Graves urged her to read another, then another. Queenie read until her throat was dry and her voice croaked and there were no more tales left to read. She glanced at Graves and realized he had fallen asleep without her noticing, his face soft and peaceful as it rested on the pillow. Queenie closed the book and snuggled closer to his side, burying her nose in the front of his shirt. He had a delicious, familiar smell of tobacco smoke, leather and steeping tea. She wanted to curl up and crawl inside his chest, surround herself with his essence. His heart beat slow against her cheek and a gentle breeze teased the curtains.

He was deeply asleep enough for Queenie to pick up on his dreams without any trouble and although she felt a bit guilty, but couldn’t help but take a peek. She saw herself, dressed in white, her belly huge as she held out a copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._

“Look, honey,” her dream-self said. “It’s for the baby.”

But when Graves opened the book it didn’t contain fairy tales but old letters, sent by his father when he was at school. The nature of dream logic meant Queenie knew what the letters contained without reading them and they were filled with his father’s disappointment, his derision, his cruelty. 

“These aren’t for a child,” dream-Graves said, anxiety tight in his chest.

“We have to give him something or else he’ll never grow up,” dream-Queenie said, her face falling.

She was no longer pregnant and she gestured to a crib in the corner, shadowed in darkness. Dream-Graves approached the crib, cold with dread, but he couldn’t see what was inside. He only heard a terrible laugh, cold and hatefully familiar, even to Queenie.

Queenie pulled out of his mind, heart pounding with fear. Graves’s face, once so soft while he dreamed, was beaded with sweat, tight with unease. Queenie wrapped her arms tight around his chest, wishing she could pluck the bad dreams from his mind and keep him safe from such torments. He stirred feebly, troubled by the nightmare that went on and on.

After a while, he calmed. Queenie could feel the anxiety drain out of him, but her heart was still sick with distress. She softly stroked his cheek, his slack mouth, and she pressed a kiss to his jaw. She felt dampness on her own face.

 

One morning while Queenie was at work, Graves felt remarkably healthy and energetic. Nothing like his old self, but better than he had felt in months. He wanted to go outside and complete a task that could have been handled by owl, but he felt invigorated enough to walk. And the idea of Queenie bustling around at work as usual, industrious and cheerful in the way he remembered her being those few times they interacted when he still worked there, made him feel restless enough to venture outside.

He’d uncovered a cache of his mother’s old jewelry; estate pieces she’d received on her wedding day and when she’d come out in society. There was a particular set of a ring and necklace, black opals set in curling, old fashioned Victorian gold, that had been her favorite. Graves could still remember sneaking into her boudoir while she got dressed for one of her many parties. She had draped the gems over her skin, flashing green and orange as she moved. He’d been mesmerized, but she had shooed him away, giving him a smack for his troubles. She didn’t like him being underfoot, dawdling in her private rooms.

The settings were quite old-fashioned now and he didn’t care for them, but the gems were still beautiful. He knew of a wizarding jeweler on Fifth Avenue with an eye for trends, in both magical and non-magical society. He didn’t know if Queenie was partial to opals, but he wanted to give something to her. Beautiful and rare though they were, they paled to what she had given him - her presence. Her daily visits had healed some old, injured part of him, and he'd come to value them more than any gemstone dug from the earth

The day was pleasant, if a little too warm. He cast a simple cooling charm as he limped along, the bright sun causing sweat to gather along his collar. He apparated most of the way and then walked down Fifth Avenue, annoyed at the twinge in his knee but grudgingly accepting that more exercise was probably a good thing. 

Despenser Fine Jewelry did not have the same ancient pedigree his mother would have found necessary in a jeweler, but Graves had to appreciate them for that. Jaspar Despenser had made some of his favorite tie clips and cufflinks. But he’d never asked him to craft jewelry for a woman before.

The man gave him a knowing smile over the rim of his spectacles, and Graves didn’t respond, merely described how he hoped the finished pieces would look.

“I’d like something in silver,” he said, rather vaguely, he had to admit. “Something that a stylish young woman might wear.”

“I know just what you mean,” Despencer said, examining the stones carefully with his loupe. “These gems are very fine. I will create something very beautiful for you and your young lady, Mr. Graves.”

Graves nodded, a soft part of his heart warming at Queenie being described as _his_ young lady, even when it wasn’t true. She didn’t belong to anyone. It was part of what he liked about her.

He was thinking about her, about her face when he gave her the finished jewelry, how delighted she would be. He hoped she would be delighted. He wanted to make her smile. Perhaps he had been out of the auror game for too long, forgot how to be constantly vigilant and aware of his surroundings. Before he knew it, there was a group of rough-looking young men on every side of him.

“Where you going in such a hurry, gimpy?” one of them said. He had a cruel look in his eye and he was missing more than a few teeth.

“You should walk away, boys,” Graves muttered, low and dangerous. His hand crept into his waistcoat to grip his wand. He watched the others do the same; they were clearly not No-Majes.

“Now we don’t want trouble, old man,” another said, surreptitiously fingering the wand tucked just out of sight. They were surrounded by No-Majes.

The old Graves would have beaten them handily, without even breaking a sweat. They’d be flat on their backs, disarmed, magically bound without the No-Majes even realizing something had happened. But Graves hadn’t been an auror for too long. He’d been holed up in his dingy apartment, cut off from the world, untrained, undisciplined. And before that, imprisoned in a more literal sense, starved, tortured, fearful of every small sound or movement. The young man at his side drew his wand and Graves panicked, he couldn’t even summon the smallest bit of defensive magic, wandless or otherwise.

 _“Expelliarmus,”_ one of them hissed and his wand jumped out from between his limp fingers.

He knew he wasn’t in danger, these boys were not a serious threat to him, they just wanted his money. They were no Grindelwald, his evil face lighting up with sadistic joy. But the fear was there anyway, so fresh and intense that he might have been back in that dark room, cold cement blocking out his screams of pain, flashes of light blinding him in the consuming darkness. His legs were suddenly so weak he couldn’t stand, the pain in his knee frighteningly strong. The hand gripping his cane was slick with sweat and he stumbled, right into the hooligan before him.

“That was easier than I thought!” he sneered, hand disappearing into his coat, in search of a watch or a purse of dragots, anything he could steal.

Graves tried to twist away, defend himself somehow, but all his magic seemed to have fled in the panic that welled inside him. But suddenly the hands digging around his pockets were jerked away. With no one supporting him, he toppled, fell with a blinding pain on his knees. The agony was so much that he was nothing but the pain in his leg, a white hot fire that made him cry out.

“Director Graves?” There was a hand on his shoulder.

He was shaking too much to stand. He swiped at his face, damp with what he feared was more than sweat. 

“Here –“

He felt two pairs of hands grip him below the armpits, pulling him upright. His cane was pushed in his hand and he leaned heavily on it, still gripping an arm while his legs trembled, weak as a colt. He recognized Auror Stephens but not the other face, but he must have been a junior auror as well, judging by the dragonskin trench coat. Another auror was covertly restraining the two hooligans who had attacked him. Had there really only been two? Graves felt hot shame color his face.

“Are you alright, sir?” said Stephens, still supporting his weight, her face creased in concern.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he muttered, unable to bear looking at either of them.

The other auror held out his wand and Graves snatched it back, pulling away from Stephens even as his legs shuddered. 

“I can escort you home –“ Stephens began, but Graves cut her off.

“No, I’ll be going now,” he said sternly, his leg throbbing like it was being stabbed with hot pokers.

“Sir –“

There was an alley to the left of them where the other auror had disapparated with the young men moments before. Graves limped slowly into its shadow, hearing Stephens and her colleague mutter softly behind him. He was barely out of sight when he disapparated.

Reappearing in his sitting room, Graves let his cane fall from his shaking grip. He stumbled, falling forward onto the couch. He couldn’t breathe, sweat burning in his eyes. He clawed at his collar, loosening his tie and gasping for breath. His sitting room was quiet, serene. Every surface clean and dusted under Queenie’s careful eye, the room filled with warm sunlight. But to Graves it looked like a tomb, his own tomb that Grindelwald had built for him. Fear and pain seemed to steal everything from him and he could barely manage to vanish his clothes and apparate into the bedroom.

He curled up on the bed, shaking and sweating uncontrollably. All he could see were mismatched eyes, shining beetle black and milk white, unnatural and cruel and taunting. After long enough, cruciatus began to feel like hands touching him. He hadn’t been touched in so long that even a touch that brought pain was welcome.

He needed a potion, but the one he summoned glowed green. It was too soon, but he couldn’t stand being conscious. Fear was like an animal inside him, ripping at the walls of his chest, turning the flesh to bloody ribbons. His hand fumbled at the stopper and then it was sliding down his throat, viscous and bitter. Darkness took him, a hand over his eyes, blocking out all light.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter, next is the epilogue, which is short so I'm posting it at the same time.

As she had been doing for weeks now, Queenie went straight to Graves’s place after work. Tina had ceased to question her, at least out loud. She knew when to back down. Most of the time, anyway.

She apparated into the entryway and immediately sensed something was wrong. There was a dark, oppressive mood in the apartment, despite how peaceful and ordered everything looked.

“Percival?” she called out, to no answer.

In the sitting room, she found Graves’s cane discarded on the floor. It was an unusual place for it and Graves liked to keep it near in case a flare-up left him immobilized. Fear gripped her and Queenie hurried to the bedroom. Her mind couldn’t stop replaying a deep-rooted memory, painful as an old bruise that she couldn’t stop prodding.

That last night with her father, how he was delirious with pain, begging for one more potion. Queenie had already cried so much she couldn’t shed anymore tears as she clung to Tina’s side, listening to their father’s stricken wails. He’d drunk that last potion, asked the healer to let him see his daughters before going to sleep. They were ushered in, Queenie holding her sister’s hand so hard that Tina had fingernail marks dug deep into her palm. The potion’s effects had just begun, a dreamy calmness settling on their father’s face.

“Don’t worry, girls,” he’d muttered, voice thick, eyes glassy and unfocused. “It’s just – it’s just a little nap – I’m so tired.”

He hadn’t woken up again. The memory was a sour taste in her mouth whenever Graves took one of those potions, the fear that he may never wake up hard to shake. She was always creeping into his room and laying her head on his chest to make sure he was still breathing.

There Graves lay, in a tangle of sheets, deathly pale and so still that Queenie actually yelped in fear. She touched his face and he felt cool and clammy. She pressed an ear to his chest and for a moment she heard nothing but her own heartbeat, wild with panic. Hands shaking, she fumbled for his wrist and, after an agonizing moment, she located a pulse. It was faint, but there. Queenie was no healer, but it didn’t seem right. His skin had a stony pallor that looked too much like her father's, laid out on the kitchen table while she had sat shiva with Tina and her aunts, all the mirrors draped in black, relatives she had never even heard of patting her head as they filed by. 

She was shaking, choking on tears as she rifled through his bedside drawer for the healer’s coin she knew he kept there. Pressing her thumb against it would summon an emergency healer and she knew Graves had been adamant against using it, hating his condition to a pathological degree.

It seemed to take hours for the healer to arrive, but it must have been only a few moments. Queenie tried very hard to keep her composure as the healer examined him, face impassive. She felt like shaking him, slapping him to make him react with all the urgency and panic she felt. Her hands were sweating too much for gloves and she twisted one anxiously in her hand, crumpling the fine white kid. 

After what felt like ages, the healer finally sighed and tucked his wand away. “I think he’ll be fine,” he announced but Queenie did not feel especially reassured.

“You _think?_ You aren’t sure?”

“It seems as though he took a pain relief potion too soon after the last dose,” the healer muttered, showing her the empty vial that she hadn’t noticed before, gathered in the folds of the bedsheets. “It knocked him out pretty good, but he’ll wake up in a few hours.”

Queenie sat down carefully, her legs too weak to support her. “But what if he doesn’t wake up?” she said in a small voice, feeling eight-years-old again.

“I’ll give him something to help his heart remember to keep beating,” the healer said, rifling through that hateful black bag.

Queenie dropped her head in her hands. Her heart clenched, sick with the idea that his heart may forget to beat at all. The healer coaxed a potion down Graves’s throat and instructed Queenie to check on him every half-hour and remind him sternly to not take the pain relief potions so close together. Queenie thanked him despite hating him a little for not being more helpful.

Once he had gone, Queenie crawled into bed beside Graves, brushing the damp hair from his face and holding him close. She felt nauseous in the wake of her anxiety, drained and shaking. Graves was so deeply asleep that he didn’t even dream. She placed a hand on his chest, taking the smallest comfort in his weakly beating heart, not intending to leave him for even a moment until he woke.

Hours later, Graves finally stirred. Queenie had only been able to doze, jerking wide awake every time as she frantically sought out his pulse to reassure herself that he was still breathing. He made a few soft sounds of distress, feebly pushing against the confines of sleep. He cracked open his eyes to look up at her blurrily.

“Queenie?” he muttered, voice weak.

“Are you alright?” she managed, swallowing thickly.

“I think so,” he whispered and Queenie pulled away.

 _“How could you?”_ she nearly screamed, feeling quite hysterical.

“W-what?” Graves looked utterly nonplussed.

“You know how dangerous it is to take too many potions, you know what could happen, you did it anyway!” She was on the verge of shrieking and wanted to rip his hair out she was so enraged.

“I – I – “ 

“I could have come home and found you dead all because you – you wanted to sleep –“ Her voice broke, tears stinging her eyes. She covered her face in her hands, shoulders shaking as she began to sob.

After a few moments, she felt a gentle touch on her arm. Still too overwhelmed to look at him, Queenie kept her face hidden. 

“I’m sorry,” she heard him say, voice low. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Desperate to get a handle on herself, Queenie scrubbed viciously at her face. She peered at Graves’s face, blurry through the mask of tears. He looked ashamed.

“I didn’t mean to go crazy,” she muttered, still hiccupping a bit. “I’m sorry.”

“I worried you,” Graves said, sounding taken aback.

“Of course I was worried! I thought you were gonna die right next to me!”

Graves took her hand, thumb stroking the inside of her wrist. His face looked pained. He reached out and cupped her damp cheek, brushing away the tears. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been that worried about me,” he said, eyes cast down.

“Oh, honey,” she breathed, feeling like sobbing all over again. She drew him into a fierce hug, holding him tight enough to feel that precious heartbeat against her own. He was warm and alive and beside her, as close as he possibly could be. Still, he didn’t feel close enough. His arms wrapped around her, face pressing against her neck as she all but crawled into his lap.

“You just need to be more careful next time, is all,” she mumbled thickly, voice muffled by his shoulder as she clung to him.

She felt his shoulders shake and she thought he might have been crying. She had never seen him cry, not even when the pain was at its worst. He wrapped himself around her, holding her tight as though he were afraid she’d fall away.

“It’s alright, honey,” she whispered, rubbing his back, stroking the fine hair on the back of his neck. “Everything’s alright.”

 

A few days later, Queenie could tell he was being especially careful with taking his potions. In fact, he seemed more resigned than ever to not take them as much. Even when the pain made his teeth clench and sweat bead on his brow, he told her he didn’t need one. Queenie felt so guilty for being angry at him and she couldn’t bear seeing him in such agony.

“You shouldn’t have to torture yourself,” she said in a weak voice as she rubbed potion onto his knee, barely taking the edge off judging by the look on his face.

“I need to stop relying on them,” he said stubbornly, thick eyebrows furrowed.

Queenie thought he was right, but at the same time hated to see him in pain. He was researching cures when the pain was too much. She would bring him a cup of tea, make sure he was eating something and not sustaining himself on the cigarettes she knew he smoked in secret.

On a Saturday morning, Queenie put together a picnic basket full of all sorts of goodies, like a pie from her mother’s recipes. She found Graves in his bedroom, hunched over a thick tome, surrounded by a sea of crumpled parchment. He was wearing glasses, which she hadn’t seen before.

“Have you been reading all night?” she said, sounding slightly concerned.

Graves was clearly so absorbed that he hadn’t even heard her enter. He pulled the glasses off his face so quickly that he nearly bent the frame. “You startled me,” he said sheepishly.

Queenie smiled and placed the basket on a low chair before bending over to see what he was working on. “Any progress?”

“Not especially, no.” He sighed unhappily, frowning deep.

“I’ve never seen you with glasses,” Queenie said brightly, intrigued by this new development.

“Well, I don’t – I don’t like to –“ he stammered, cheeks turning pink.

Queenie let out a little gasp as she read his mind. “They don’t make you look old!” she said with a laugh, but Graves was still turning red. “You look distinguished. Even more handsome than usual.”

Graves looked down bashfully, still tucking the glasses in his pocket, out of sight.

“How are you feeling? If you’re up to it, I thought we could go to the park.” She gestured to the picnic basket.

Graves nodded, looking only slightly apprehensive. Wary about going outside though he was, she knew that without her pushing him a bit here and there he might never leave. And the fresh air was good for him.

It was a bright, hot day and Graves had to take off his jacket as they walked. He leaned heavily on his cane and Queenie’s arm and she could feel his unease, how he felt like everyone was staring at him. But the crowds of mostly No-Maj families enjoying the sunshine did not find the sight of a man with a limp and a cane unusual. The Great War had affected No-Maj men even more profoundly that their wizarding counterparts.

They found a spot of grass a bit further away from the crowds and Queenie spread out the blanket she’d brought with them. She needed to help Graves sit down on the ground, but she’d also brought a pillow for him to prop his leg up with. Under a willow tree, they basked in the dappled sunlight and shared fizzy lemonade that Queenie had charmed to remain ice cold and refreshing. After sandwiches, she prepared them slices of pie with dollops of cream. It was a less than ideal thing to eat outside and Queenie kept giggling as they struggled to eat without making a mess.

Graves also seemed to be a good mood. He was actually smiling as he reached over to swipe a smudge of cream from her cheek. Queenie felt herself blush, enjoying the tender way he looked at her. She reached out to him with her mind, careful and tentative, but she didn’t encounter the same obstructions that she had before. His feelings for her took her breath away. It was more than tenderness or lust, he wanted… he wanted so much it made her ache.

She couldn’t help it. She reached out, stroking his face, the slight stubble on his jaw, those beauty marks on his cheek, the lovely curve of his lips. She leaned in, his mouth tasting of cream and sweet lemons. Her own feelings mingled with his inside her heart and she could have drowned in the sweet, syrupy thickness of affection so strong it made her heart stutter. His fingers brushed her cheek, light as a summer breeze. She laid a hand on his chest, comforted by the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

_“Queenie!”_

They broke apart with a start and Queenie whipped around, mouth falling open. Tina stood not five feet from them, looking alarmed.

“Director Graves?” she muttered, completely flummoxed.

“Tina,” Queenie said, rather annoyed at being interrupted.

“Nice to see you again, Queenie,” said Newt Scamander, standing at Tina’s elbow. “And you, Mr. Graves. Although, I suppose we’ve never actually met…”

“Didn’t we deport you, Mr. Scamander?” Graves said and Newt shuffled nervously.

“Is this who you’ve been with all this time?” Tina muttered faintly.

“Yes, not that it’s any of your business,” Queenie said sharply. “Especially since you obviously weren’t _working_ all those nights away from home.”

Tina turned bright pink. “It wasn’t – it wasn’t every night –“

“I’d stand up to shake your hand properly, but…” Graves gestured to the cane at his side.

Tina looked even more mortified. “Oh…”

“We should go, Tina,” Newt muttered, tugging at her arm.

They both sidled away as Queenie fumed. She wasn’t sure why she felt so annoyed until she glanced over at Graves. He looked concerned, his eyebrows arching together. She touched his cheek, leaning in to inhale his sweet and musky scent. 

“You never told Tina?” Graves said softly and Queenie shook her head.

“I never told anyone,” she whispered against his collar. “I didn’t want to gossip. But also, I think I liked having you to myself.”

She looked up at him and his brown eyes shone, huge in his face and sparkling with shifting rays of sun glancing through the tree branches. He kissed her softy on the mouth and she savored the feel of his lips.

“I think I love you,” she said when they broke apart. Graves seemed unable to speak.

She laid her hand against his chest, right over his heart. His mind was completely open to her and the rawness of feeling made her heart constrict.

“You don’t have to say it,” she said, lips twitching as she smiled. “I know you do too.”

 

When she went home that night, Queenie and Tina had a long chat. Queenie admitted everything, telling Tina some of how Graves had been changed by Grindelwald’s captivity. Tina looked shaken.

“It’s hard not to think of him sentencing Newt and me to death,” she said in a small voice, looking into her tea.

“That wasn’t him,” Queenie said earnestly. “That was Grindelwald.”

“I know that,” she said. “But it looked just like him. And he had never been the warmest person to begin with.” She gave Queenie a quizzical look, having no idea what Queenie saw in him. She could only see the hard, cold man who had been her boss. Unsmiling, emotionless, the opposite of Queenie’s usual type.

“He isn’t really like that though,” she insisted, grabbing her hand. “He’s wonderfully kind, tender, sweet…”

Tina raised her eyebrows skeptically, but she was smiling. Queenie giggled, blushing at how she sounded like a schoolgirl with a crush. But Tina had her own secrets to confess and she told Queenie all about her liaisons with Newt and how yes, he technically wasn’t supposed to be in the country, and yes, she could get fired, but Queenie won’t tell anyone, right? Queenie crossed her heart and hoped to die and assured her Graves wouldn’t do anything either. They hugged and Queenie felt closer to her sister than she had in ages.

Queenie went over to Graves’s the following day and was very surprised to find Newt in the sitting room, just packing up to leave.

“I was offering Mr. Graves some advice,” he said after greeting her. “I’ve run into magical injuries that leave lasting pain and damage a few times in my travels and I’ve found that many healers don’t really know how to deal with it. With so many ailments that can be fixed completely with magic, they don’t do as much research as they really should.”

After he left, Queenie joined Graves on the couch. He looked content and healthy and she took his hand.

“Do you think he can help?” she asked hopefully and Graves only shrugged.

“I’ve heard plenty of promises,” he said a bit cynically, but she couldn’t miss the spark of optimism deep in his heart. “I have something for you,” he said, summoning a black velvet box from another room.

Queenie gasped. There was only one thing generally kept in black velvet boxes. Graves suddenly looked very nervous.

“I do hope you like it,” he said, eyes darting as he pressed it into her hand.

She grinned haltingly, biting her lip as she opened it. Inside was a black opal necklace, set in a geometric silver pendant and thin chain. Beside it was a ring with the same stone, glowing with shards of green and red and every color in between. Queenie immediately started crying.

“Are those good tears?” Graves asked anxiously, brows in a knot.

Queenie could only nod, mopping her face with the hanky that Graves summoned for her.

“The stones are from my mother’s collection, but I got them re-set to look a little more modern, more fashionable,” he said, carefully removing the necklace to slip it around her throat. Queenie brushed the hair off her neck so he could clasp it and he leaned close enough that she could smell his aftershave.

“These are Graves family heirlooms?” she said, rather shocked. “For _me?”_

“You deserve so much more, but… I wanted to give you something pretty.” He stroked her face, thumb dipping into her dimpled cheek as she grinned.

“It’s beautiful,” she muttered, rather overwhelmed. “Even more so because you gave it to me.”

Flushed with pleasure, a small smile played across his face as he leaned in to kiss her. “You have no idea how much you’ve helped me,” he said, voice small, nuzzling her cheek as he slipped the matching ring onto her finger.

“I could say the same to you,” she said and he looked surprised. “Now, you’ll give a girl ideas.” She gestured to his hand, still touching the ring on her finger. She was teasing him, but the play of emotions on his face indicated how it affected him. Surprise, then worry, then a sort of embarrassed pleasure. She could read his heart without even needing to read his mind.

She kissed him, softly at first and then with increased passion. Without any barriers between them, Queenie could tell that his leg only bothered him a fraction and while he was thinking about going to bed, it wasn’t to sleep. He gazed into her eyes, cheeks pink.

“I wish I could carry you,” he said.

“Ain’t you romantic,” she said with a soft smile, ruffling his hair.

In the end, she basically carried him. He leaned against her shoulder while she wrapped an arm around his waist. He laid her out on the bed, wincing at the twinge in his leg. Queenie stroked his face, concerned.

“Don’t push yourself too much, honey,” she said anxiously as he struggled out of his shirt.

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, nudging the pendant aside to kiss down her chest. He wasn’t even thinking about his leg.

She had wanted him for so long, it was hard to believe it was really happening. His hands on her skin, slightly calloused from where he held his quill, so gentle and careful as he touched her. Queenie couldn’t keep her hands off him either, enjoying the rough scrape of hair on her palms as she touched his chest, followed the line of hair down below his belly to where it disappeared in his trousers. He kissed her breasts like he had never seen anything like them before, face hot as he tongued her nipples. He was hard against her thigh, releasing a soft gasp she rubbed against him. Careful of his leg, she urged him to lie back on the bed so she could straddle him, taking any pressure off his tender knee. 

“Mercy Lewis, you’re beautiful,” he muttered, sounding dazed as she settled above him. “But you must be used to hearing that.”

“From you, it sounds brand new,” she said, pulling off her slip and letting it fall to the floor. Graves looked up at her reverently, thumb stroking her hip.

They fell into a slow rhythm, Queenie constantly wary of hurting him. But he started to groan softly, little breathy sounds as he urged her on faster. She finally lost herself a bit, consumed by their mutual pleasure. It was always so intense, feeling his desire in tandem with her own. She rocked against him, necklace swinging, body getting hotter and flusher with every roll of her hips. She moaned his name softly as she came and then rode the swell of her climax as Graves gripped her hips, thrusting into her until he shuddered and stiffened, face pained with the intensity of his pleasure.

Afterwards, Queenie lay with her head on his chest, twisting the ring around and around her finger. His heartbeat, fast at first, had slowed to a gentle, soothing rhythm. 

“I don’t want to leave,” she muttered after a long stretch of time, cuddled against him as he played with her tangled hair.

“Then don’t,” he said simply. He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Please don’t,” he added, tone softer and more vulnerable.

Queenie privately thought that he couldn’t get her to leave if he tried.


	6. Epilogue

Graves was woken suddenly, the bed shaking slowly as a small form bounced on the mattress.

“Daddy! Mommy! Wake up!”

He felt Queenie shift slightly beside him as he cracked open his eyes. Elaine was poking her mother in the face as she chirped excitedly. “It’s my birthday! I’m five!” she announced, as though they both didn’t know.

“Ellie, stop poking me,” Queenie said, sitting up and pulling the child into a hug. “And happy birthday.”

Graves pulled himself into a sitting position, his leg twinging first thing in the morning. He grimaced at the pain, but it was fleeting. “Happy birthday, Ellie,” he said warmly and she grinned, going back to bounce on the bed in excitement.

“What do you want for birthday breakfast?” Queenie said cheerfully as Graves rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Pancakes! With strawberries. No, with chocolate! NO! Um…” She screwed up her tiny face, thick dark brows just like her father in miniature.

“Why not both?” Graves suggested, ruffling her hair.

Her eyes widened, amazed at the discovery that both strawberries and chocolate were possible as a pancake topping.

“For a birthday breakfast, you can do both,” Queenie agreed and Elaine shrieked in excitement, jumping off the bed to dance around. “Now don’t get too excited!” she said, exasperated. “There’s your party later and Uncle Newt said he’s bringing a special surprise.”

“Surprise! Surprise!” Elaine chanted, not taking her mother’s suggestion to calm down the least bit seriously.

Graves gave Queenie a look of dismay. “Is this surprise going to be a beast of some kind?”

“Probably,” she said with a grin and a small shrug. “Now get dressed because you need to help me cut strawberries.”

Elaine danced out of the room, still chanting. Queenie threw off the covers to get out of bed but Graves pulled her back, catching her mouth in a kiss.

“I love you,” he said fondly as they broke apart.

Queenie smiled broadly, stroking his cheek. “I love you more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all, folks.
> 
> yes, i'm such a sap :3


End file.
